That house, the one by the river, wooden
with windchimes and driftwood and rain on the windows

The river, called Siuslaw, was a wide mouth,
giant logs cast down, rapid and uncrossable.
In the enclosed porch, I sat quietly, fingered fishermen's twine, listened.

The weather today reminds of Bré, Ireland,
and the cliff path we walked all afternoon to neighboring Greystones.
I am back in Monteverde, Costa Rica, the Cloud Forest and its "cat whisker" rain.

I called for the orange kitten again today as I followed Cedar.
It did not come.
Perhaps it is curled up near a window inside.

Shiloh Hill smelled all of pine, damp and deep.
My bare arms were chilled, but I was adamant.
The mountains now deep green (only Dominion and the top of Paradis have kept their snow),
my footsteps sturdy and ears searching for the wind.